Days Gone By
by Mooseymoose
Summary: Bella is a phoenix, risen from the ashes of the suicidal eighth grade Izzy Swan, starting over with new hope. Edward is a newer student, and the only one in Bella's class who can't judge her from firsthand experience. AU. Wow, I suck at summaries.
1. Chapter 1

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_Bella_

Forks High School.

It was the start of my senior year in high school, and I'd never stepped foot in this place. My last rendezvous with school was Forks Middle, and God knows that worked out great.

Nervously, I trace the bulbous scars on my right arm as I approach the unimpressive, yet still intimidating building. After four years, it was difficult to imagine my life before the mental, emotional, and physical scars. Zoloft didn't help, Prozac didn't help…yet somehow, I'm better.

I struggle to remember the mindset of eighth grade Izzy Swan. What was wrong with her that she felt the only way to survive her life was to end it?

On the outside, her life wasn't so bad. Step-dad (real dad) Charlie made a decent amount of money. Mom was a housewife. Izzy had her own room, away from the tiresome half-sibs. Her house had a family room _and_ a living room. There were two bathrooms for the family of five to share, and no one had to pee that much, so Izzy had the upstairs bathroom essentially to herself. The family had two cars, one of which was promised to Izzy when she got her license. Izzy had a small but close-knit group of friends that all lived within a block of each other, available to hang out whenever the desire arose. Izzy's parents shared a beach house with her step-dads extended family in L.A.

But as with any good life, shadowy tendrils hid in the corners. Charlie and Renee fought a lot about stupid things. (They were still best friends.) Izzy's was terrible at math. (She excelled in English). Izzy was ugly. (Mom always said she had pretty eyes and nice cheekbones.)

Izzy wasn't strong enough to take these tendrils by the tails and conquer them. Izzy was mentally damaged.

The only connection I share with Izzy Swan are the long, twisting, bumpy, labyrinthine markings on my inner wrists. Skin grafting only goes so far.

I push my chemically straightened brown hair away from my face and trudge to the building. These students will remember me as Izzy Swan. They'll want to catch a glimpse of the macaroni-like marks she left on my arms. I don't have the benefit of being an actual new girl, able to start over and become whoever she wants to be.

I am defined by Izzy Swan.


	2. Chapter 2

_Edward._

I've been here two years, and they're still making black jokes.

Not that I'm black. But I'm from L.A., and according to these kids who have lived in the largely white town of Forks since they've been born, L.A. is "black central." I have no idea why. There is actually a pretty even racial distribution there, and what does it matter anyway?

So, in their pseudo-racist eyes, I, with my pale skin and reddish hair, am the biggest culture shock they've ever met because I hail from Los Angeles. Fuckers.

Random, I know. But it's relevant when my acquaintances ask me to "talk to the black kids for them." Which happened today. I swear, that's how bad it is here.

"Ask him if he can get out of the way. I want a Snapple." Says Mike Newton in a desperate tone. Newton's actually not such a bad guy, but he's still an idiot.

The lonely looking kid in question is in fact standing quite close to the vending machine, but it's as easy as Mike saying "excuse me" to get his own pansy ass a Snapple.

In the morning before school starts, there are about 12 early birds sitting in the school cafeteria, waiting for the homeroom bell to ring and for everyone to scramble to find their assigned lockers. In the far corner of the room, separated from everyone else in a noticeable way, is a sallow looking girl with long brown hair, looking for all the world like she hopes and expects the way she's leaning over her table to make her disappear. I feel a twinge of pity.

"No fucking way, man," I respond to Newton, "Do it yourself. I don't see the issue."

Actually, I wouldn't mind going over to that kid standing in front of the vending machine, and the girl trying to hide herself, and saying "what's up?"

But I know in the back of my mind that it's a bad idea. Here's why: I'm not bragging when I say that I know I'm good looking because it's not an accomplishment that I can be proud of. This, combined with my natural self-confidence, projects to many as me being a pompous ass. So if I tried to make friends with those two right now, in front of all these self-proclaimed popular jocks, I would seem like a "funny guy" going for a laugh. It's happened to me at my old school. I tried to ask out a cool girl with an eccentric fashion and makeup sense and got dirty looks from her crowd for the rest of the school year. Personally, I think they were being a little judgmental, but I understand where they were coming from.

Those two across the cafeteria could be total jerks, or psychos, but if I know anything, it's that everyone deserves a stab at friendship.


End file.
